Monthly Archives: December 2011

Christmas has long been my holiday. Since the larger side of my family lives in Iran, and my only close relatives on the small side relocated to Georgia, our holiday gatherings are not grand affairs, and the five of us — my grandpa, grandma, mom, dad and me — typically just celebrate a holiday or birthday with a dinner and dessert. There’s no traveling involved (my grandparents live 20 minutes away), no “morning after” menu with which to contend and no problem wondering how all the food will fit in the fridge. My grandma hosts Thanksgiving and serves the same thing each year, while I look forward to flipping through my cookbooks and planning Christmas dinner well in advance, from soup to nuts.

Menu planning for such a small event, then, should be a cinch, right? Wrong. I’m not really working with adventurous eaters here. My grandparents are meat and taters folk. Their diet, understandably, reflects that of a hardworking, humble, New England family. They’ve always had little, never traveled and didn’t really learn that there’s more than two varieties of onions or that herbs don’t just come in jars. And coming from humble origins myself, I respect that, I do.

Our Christmas dinners are not avant-garde. They’re just homey and comforting, and I like that, but there are so many restrictions. Grandpa doesn’t like nuts, lettuce that is not iceberg, dressing that doesn’t come from a bottle, garlic or anything “foreign” (his words, not mine). He orders his meat medium-well (blech). He devours chocolates (only milk) but not chocolate desserts. Grandma can’t eat breakfast or lunch food like sandwiches, only indulges in white chocolate and has trouble eating ice cream. She thinks chickens don’t have bones and thus will only eat poultry that has been cut off the bone. She also has somehow made something similar to anything that you have ever served and will always make that clear as you proudly present your dishes. I would never know, because she seems to only give my family week-old, leaden loaves of date-nut bread for gifts. The list goes on.Continue reading →

With my dad hailing from the holy land of the fig (the Middle East), it was my ancestral duty to finally make it to the new bakery/café right on Highland Ave in Somerville that has the sweet fruit in its name. As you might guess, 3 Little Figs is all in the family. From the name and locale to the size, decor and staff, this place is cute as a button. If I owned a bakery it would be nearly identical to 3 Little Figs: the space is small but airy and bright, the decor is shabby-chic without an emphasis on one over the other, production is done on a small scale, the menu is modest but complete. There are even hanging lighting fixtures made of what look like old Hobart mixer whisk attachments. How cute is that?

I spent last Saturday Christmas shopping and wanted to quell my afternoon hunger with something that screamed “holiday.” I couldn’t think of anything, but I knew that 3 Little Figs uses local and seasonal ingredients, so I could find something savory and sweet that at least screamed “winter.” 3 Little Figs delivered. I felt fantastically festive and frightfully full after leaving, and that’s all I wanted.

Throughout my elfin years, every Christmas morning went the same way. I would wake up at a reasonable hour – say, 8am – and creep down the hall of my small apartment, hoping not to wake my parents as I looked, but never touched, the color-coordinated packages under the tree. I was always half successful. My father sleeps like a rock and would likely not be shaken by an earthquake. My mother, on the other hand, although exhausted from “playing Santa” the evening before, would always hear me and be the first to wish me a “Merry Christmas”.

My mother is the antithesis of Martha Stewart, but every Christmas, she dreamed up a theme that complimented our Christmas tree ornaments; purchased bags, tags, bows, dangley things and wrapping paper that matched that theme; and wrapped presents until 3 am, staggering them according to height, weight and aesthetics. Eventually, my father’s internal clock decided that he was ready to grace us with his presence and the opening commenced.

It’s true that this blog is relatively young, but sometimes I feel a little disconnected from the Boston food blogging community for a very good reason: I don’t actually live in Boston. I commute to Boston for work. I went to school in Boston. My friends are in Boston. I’m a walking catalogue of where to eat in Boston. I feel like Boston is my true home, and sometimes I have to remind myself that I can’t just hop the T to get to my house at night or that I can’t just go out to dinner with a friend without advance planning.

That’s why I was thrilled when I snagged a spot to my first Boston Brunchers event this past Sunday. I always refer to myself as a “cookbook hoarder.” In recent years, I’ve changed that to “good cookbook hoarder,” as I’m awfully discerning about the sources from which I use recipes. Nonetheless, I pour over cookbooks in my spare time, treasure pulling from different cookbooks to make a cohesive menu and, quite honestly, would choose to read one over a really good novel. So a slightly unconventional Sunday brunch chez Harvard Common Press was right up my alley.

Today is December 1st and, for me, the start of the holiday season. Every year through high school and college, I woke up on the Friday after Thanksgiving at 3 am. With the previous evening’s meal barely digested, I threw on my red and black and hightailed it to my job at Staples. There, I was routinely greeted by a line of wide-awake yet far from friendly electronics mavens and eBay aficionados, staring me down as if I had the authority to let all of them in early. There was something very satisfying about locking the door behind me and smiling at the vultures who still had an hour to stew. For some, this tradition ushers in the holiday season, but I subscribe to the Nordstrom philosophy. Can I finish the season of “thanks” before I jump into the season of “give-me?”

Now, I am no Scrooge. When December rolls around, I am ready for holiday cheer. Today, if I walk into a store to find a bell-ringing, velour-suited Santa, I’ll keep my cool. If I hear fa-la-la-la-las on the radio, I’ll turn it up, and I’ll even sing along. And at 22, I will proudly announce that I still enjoy watching “The 25 Days of Christmas” on ABC Family, especially Santa Claus is Coming to Town (it’s a classic!). Judge away. The harvest season is over. My beloved Macouns are becoming mealy. The trees are bare. I can move on.